


Blankets & Breakfast

by TippityTop



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blankets, Egbert roll, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TippityTop/pseuds/TippityTop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave doesn't enjoy mornings. John can't possibly make them any better- or can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blankets & Breakfast

You’re wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets. It’s incredibly calming and the darkness somehow soothes your soul. You could lie like this forever, just spending eternity in the soft sheets and blackness. Sighing contentedly, you roll over to face the wall. You’ve just accomplished the glorious feat of finishing off all your assignments a little before 5am in the morning. Hell yeah. Sleep wraps its gentle arms around your mind, numbing your thoughts and relaxing your breathing. You drift off peacefully into welcoming slumber.

You do not wake up in a similar manner.

A ball of overzealous energy and happiness slams into you in the morning. At fucking 7am. In the fucking _morning_. This absolute bundle of sugar and spice and everything nice is one John Egbert. As much as you do enjoy sharing an apartment with said person- you cannot come to comprehend how he wakes up, every single day, at the goddamn awful hours of early dawn. Even on the weekends. Which it is now.

“Five more hours, Egbert, wake me up then,” you mumble before dragging your pillow over your head. He’s sitting on top of you and bouncing around. Well good luck with that you think, you’re not going to let him ruin your rest- you’ve dealt with worse situations before.

“Dave.”

This is accompanied by a poke at your shoulder.

“Dave.” Poke.

“Dave.” Poke.

“Daaaave.” Poke.

This goes on for a good fifteen minutes before you grumble something like _fuckyoujohn_ under your breath and whip around fast enough to dislodge him from your back to the floor. You reach out a hand from under your blankets to grab your shades from your desk and settle them on your nose before you stand up and unceremoniously dump your blankets on top of John.

“Hey!” he cries, struggling to get up and out of your blankets. You spare a glance at his wriggling form and then proceed to wrap the sheets around his flailing limbs. He trips over his tangled feet and lands in a sprawling heap on your bed. A muffled, ‘Ow!’ reaches your ears. “That’s what you get for ruining a Strider’s beauty sleep. I’m a fucking beauty pageant queen and I need every wink of sleep I can catch for maintaining my flawless, pale complexion,” you reply.

He giggles under your blankets and then wiggles around a bit more, trying and failing to untangle his arms and legs. “You would have better skin if you didn’t always go to bed at five in the morning,” he answers.

“I’m hurt- I thought you said you’d always love me, even if I didn’t win Ms. Texan Queen and even if I grew old and ugly like some decaying piece of moldy, three-year old toast.”

“Ew, Dave, that’s gross! I actually made french toast for breakfast you know! And Dave, I’ll always love you- even more if you help me out though,” he says, squirming unsuccessfully around.

You take a second to think about it.

“Well Egbert, seems like you’ve won back your fair lady, I certainly could never resist your fine offer of breakfast. However, you kind of deserve it- I’m a raging creature when woken before the acceptable time of noon. You’re lucky I didn’t tie you up and ravage your poor body into a gooey mess- reduce you to a panting, hot mess with weak-knees.”

Then you abscond towards the bathroom. You definitely were not thinking of that mental image. Nope. Not in terrifyingly precise detail, down to the point where you would love to see John’s glasses steaming up and his tongue lolling out, all pink and pretty, from his cute little mouth.

Nope, not at all.

 

Damn.

 

***

 

Well damn. You really can’t seem to get out of this mess.

You’ve certainly tried but, somehow, the sheets just keep getting knotted up and end up more tangled than before! You take a moment to mentally ponder over asking Dave for help again. He left the room surprisingly fast and made it pretty clear that you brought this upon yourself. Urgh. Dave, even without all his random sexual metaphors and sarcasm, would probably stick to his word and not help. You sigh, exasperated with yourself and with him.

After ten minutes of futile wiggling and attempted complex maneuvers, you realize that you are in a dire predicament. You're pretty sure Dave didn’t do a highly sophisticated knot, seeing as he just woke up and was grumpy and sleepy, so it must be _your_ fault that you’re now wrapped up so tight that you can’t move a single finger- or any part of you for that matter. You can sort of roll a bit though. However, you highly doubt that it will lead to much progress.

You decide to wait for Dave to come back from the bathroom. It’s been twenty minutes since he left and he never does take more than twenty five minutes in there. You wait- it’s not like you can do anything else anyways.

Twenty minutes after Dave’s usual twenty five minutes and you’re starting to lose a little feeling in your toes and hands. You are busy beaming silent thoughts of ‘help!’ towards one agonizingly slow Dave Strider. He slinks back into the room after another painful two minutes and seems surprised that you’re right where he last left you. As surprised as Dave will ever let on- this meaning nothing but a slight raise of his eyebrows over his shades.

He’s already dressed, in a loose, red t-shirt with a picture of an apple plastered across the front and black jeans. The text above the apple says ‘Bite me’ in white letters. He claims that it’s ironic- like him. You say that it’s just him being awfully obnoxious. The jeans border on ‘form fitting’ and though you probably would never admit it- look ridiculously good on him. His hair has been carefully preened into a seemingly effortless style.

“Sup, Egbert.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Hi Dave,” you say.

“So, I’m just going to go and eat breakfast now, care to join me?”

“No, Dave. I’m kind of stuck.”

“Oh well, suit yourself man. I’ll just be over here, enjoying a nice plate of french toast and a glass or two of apple juice- can’t get enough of that stuff. Maybe even turn on the TV and start watching the early morning news for weather or some shit.”

He looks at you (at least you _think_ he does- you can never really tell with the sunglasses thing), for about ten seconds. Ten extremely long and excruciating seconds. Then he turns around to head towards the living room.

“Dave! No, wait!” you cry. He stops, mid-step and turns back towards you as you roll back a bit helplessly. “What’s got your panties all tangled up in a knot today, Egbert roll?” he asks, casually going to lean against the side of his bedroom door.

“Dave, I’m serious! I’m really stuck, and I can’t feel my limbs or anything. Can you help?” the last sentence is asked with you pulling the puppy dog eyes at him. Your bottom lip quivers and you bite down on it. “Please, Dave?” you almost whisper. Then you lick your lower lip with your tongue and stare piteously at him.

He doesn’t react.

In fact you’re pretty sure he isn’t doing anything besides standing really.

Damn you Dave! You _will_ make him help you!

So you whine.

 

***

 

Damn John and all his fucking sexiness.

He’s going to make you fucking die of a goddamn heart attack one of these days.

If you don’t die from a heart attack, you’re going to die from lack of oxygen. You can’t breathe because of one John fucking Egbert. Just. Damn.

Jesus Egbert.

He probably doesn’t even know what he does to you. He just does such innocently cute stuff without knowing that it literally stops your heart and takes your fucking breath away. It’s so clichéd that you can’t even bear to say it aloud- even for ironic purposes. But damn. It’s down-fucking-right true.

It’s the times when you have a practically defenseless John on your bed, staring at you with his big, impossibly blue eyes and his fucking adorable two front teeth sucking in his plump bottom lip into his mouth, that you offer prayers of heartfelt thanks to whatever supernatural force there is that thinks that you deserve to get the symptoms of paralysis. Because you will fuckin’ kill any god or deity or whatever if they say you aren’t allowed to be knocked senseless at the spectacle that is gracing your sight right now.

Fuckin’ hell.

And then John licks his lower lip.

And he whines.

He fucking _whines_.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Damnfuckshitjohnfuckyoufuckshit.

Ok. Ok. Self-restraint. That is a thing. It is you. You will restrain yourself. You will become the motherfucking master of self-restraint. You are a fucking _god_ at not letting anything show. You will become motherfucking batshit good at calming the raging tidal waves of blood that seem to be heading straight south. Because south is bad. It is very bad right now. You will not let a single wave break the iron barrier that is your will. Your will of ‘not-fucking-things-up’. For not popping inappropriate boners at highly inconvenient times. Such as in the presence of a sexy-as-hell John. Which would actually be highly appropriate in this situatio- fuck.

Damn.

Be cool. Cool. Be the epitome of cool. Strider-cool. Ok. You can handle this shit. You can handle John. Yes. Yes you can. Egbert is never going to have managed to seduce you. Nope. The Strider Coolkid won’t fall to this. Ok.

“Uh… Dave?”

“Wha- huh?” Oh god. You are so cool. You are just going to fucking bury yourself alive.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“…Oh.” You are mentally stabbing yourself with a million shitty swords right now.

“So, uh, do you think you could help me out here?” He grins sheepishly at you.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

 

A minute later.

 

“Uh, Dave? I really, _really_ could use some help here? You know, unless you’ve just nodded off back to sleep against the doorway or something?”

You spring away from the door frame, which you’ve practically been glued against for the past five to eight minutes, and almost trip on your way to John. He snickers and attempts to roll toward you.

“You didn’t _really_ fall asleep there did you?”

“No. I fucking did not.”

“Oh my god, Dave! You totally _did_ fall asleep standing up!”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Wait until I tell Jade and Rose!”

You stop untangling the blankets long enough to lean right into his face. Give or take a couple inches. Your heart still needs to function, goddammit.

“Don’t. You. Fuckin’. Dare.”

“Hehehehehe, Dave! Your Texan accent is sooo funny!”

The heartless jerk continues giggling as you manage to undo a particularly bizarre knot. How the hell? You are tempted to fetch your katana and slice your sheets to ribbons- it would certainly be a lot quicker. However, you’re quite fond of your blankets. And the infuriatingly cute guy inside them. So you’ll put up with the former for the sake of being near the latter.

“What the fuck, John? How the hell did you even manage to do this? Are you like some sort of contortionist? Damn, Egbert, you should have told me, would have youtubed that shit and gotten you famous.”

“I don’t know Dave, maybe. I’m not sure I’d like all the attention. I’d rather be your private source of entertainment,” he whispers coyly into your ear as you lean in close again to un-loop the fabric around his shoulders. Your heart performs an acrobatic fucking pirouette, which would have shamed even the most die-hard, professional Olympic sportsman, and almost threatens to leave your body via your mouth. Thankfully, you still have a decent amount of infinite Strider style calm.

“Sure, babe. Make sure you’re prepared for being fucked senseless. I’m not gonna’ stop until you’re screamin’ my name and begging for it. Ain’t that going to be a fuckin’ pretty sight? You all flush and pink and gettin’ pounded into the fuckin’ sheets, stainin’ it your color. “You murmur back. You don’t mind your Southern accent slipping in- that shit is fucking sexy, screw you John.

Not literally.

But, yeah.

You are rewarded with the sight of John’s face slowly flushing bright red. Right up to the tips of his ears and down to his neck and collar bones. John has some damn fine collar bones, you think. You wonder how it would feel under your lips. What sounds he’d make- fuck. No. Calm and collected. Like a bird in the breeze. A breeze that’s beginning to turn into a mild tornado. But fuck that. You’re as serene as an eagle. A vegetarian eagle. Who’s sight-seeing.

John mumbles something incoherent and looks away from you before laughing nervously.

“Uh, jeez, haha Dave! Very funny… uh, breakfast?”

You nearly laugh out loud. Nearly. At most your mouth sort of curls upward, slightly more than a smirk though- probably enough to pass for a smile. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, you don’t just switch from talking dirty to breakfast - unless you had some implied innuendo for ‘breakfast’ that is?”

You finally finish untangling John from your blankets and throw them off into the corner of the room. He quickly glances back at you. Seeing the smile on your face, he cheekily grins back. He playfully shoves you with your pillow and then rolls his eyes, “Of course Dave, because it’s been ages since you’ve eaten anything. So get your butt off the bed and let’s go and eat. Plus, it’s not even morning now- it’s like nine or ten. It’s been way too long to call it breakfast now.”

He bounces off your bed and scampers to the door before turning around and adding, “I also hate your fucking blankets- I’m going to steal them and cut them into tiny squares. They are _way_ too tight and now I have pins and needles.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a fanfiction. Sorry for any grammar mistakes!  
> Thanks for dropping by! (ノ・◡・)ノ ♥


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